


Take One for the Team

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Blow Jobs, Chemicals, Coercion, Crying, Drugged Sex, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Extreme Insertion, Extremely Dubious Consent, Forced Orgasm, Genital Torture, Humiliation, M/M, Men Crying, Mindbreaking, Object Insertion, Overstimulation, Painful Sex, Painplay, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Coercion, Size Kink, Submission, Unwilling Arousal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:02:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21700447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: They brought him in in the fourth, and he promptly pitched the worst game of his life. The lights were in his eyes. The crowd noise was distracting. Even the ball's stitching didn't feel right under his fingers. When O'Donnell yanked him after two disastrous innings, he'd let the Kingfishers take an 8–1 lead. The Electrics tried their best, but there was no way to come back from that.After the reporters had gotten their post-game quotes and left, Gordon Walker came over to where Antonio was getting dressed. "Seems like you could use a little extra coaching, Mazzotti," he said. "Why don't you meet me here at 9 a.m. tomorrow?"
Relationships: Baseball Team Captain/Rookie Player
Comments: 18
Kudos: 257
Collections: Anonymous, Consent Issues Exchange 2019





	Take One for the Team

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marmolita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marmolita/gifts).



A month into his first year in the majors, Antonio (never Tony) Mazzotti thought he was doing really well. His fastballs were fast, his curveballs were curvy, and he and Willy Anderson had pulled off a gorgeous double play that got them on the back page of the _Daily News_ and the _Post_. He was hitting pretty well too—not brilliantly, but as well as anyone ever expected a pitcher to hit. With his first paycheck, he'd knocked out his brother's student loans and his mom's mortgage. Life was good. He was pumped for the Electrics' first game of the season against their biggest rivals, the Kingfishers. He felt like he was maybe coming down with a bit of a cold, but he'd played sick plenty of times and been fine, so he didn't mention it to anyone.

They brought him in in the fourth, and he promptly pitched the worst game of his life. The lights were in his eyes. The crowd noise was distracting. Even the ball's stitching didn't feel right under his fingers. When O'Donnell yanked him after two disastrous innings, he'd let the Kingfishers take an 8–1 lead. The Electrics tried their best, but there was no way to come back from that.

After the reporters had gotten their post-game quotes and left, Gordon Walker came over to where Antonio was getting dressed. "Seems like you could use a little extra coaching, Mazzotti," he said. "Why don't you meet me here at 9 a.m. tomorrow?"

Walker was a hard-hitting second baseman from Georgia who'd been playing for most of two decades, and he took being captain very seriously. It was clear he felt his job was to keep them all in line. Antonio wasn't exactly scared of him, he was just... a little scared of him. And hot for him, but he hoped to take that to his grave without anyone ever finding out.

No one ever trained at 9 a.m. unless something was really wrong. Mornings were when ballplayers got to be people. They got haircuts, ran errands. They didn't set foot on the field until after lunch. And Antonio had never heard of Walker personally training anyone. He was pretty sure this "coaching session" was going to be Walker either beating the shit out of him or fucking him up against a wall. Maybe both. 

But he knew his place, and he wasn't too scared. He'd been beaten up before, and he'd been jerking off to (and once, by accident, on) his Gordon Walker rookie card since he hit puberty. So at 9 a.m. the next day, he arrived at the stadium, ready for anything.

It seemed like no one was around, not even the groundskeepers. A lone security guard waved him in. He stepped into the clubhouse and found Walker already in his workout clothes, lounging on a black leather couch, drinking blue Gatorade and watching a video of the previous day's game. The team's colors were electric blue and black, and the clubhouse looked like an 80s nightclub—or at least what Antonio thought an 80s nightclub would have looked like. He guessed he could ask Walker, who'd actually been clubbing age in the 80s while Antonio was in diapers. But it was impossible to imagine Walker going clubbing. He'd been born grouchy.

"Thanks for coming," Walker said, turning the TV off.

Antonio laughed a little. "Sure, man. This is where you fuck me up for blowing the game, right? I get it, I'll take my lumps."

"Is that what you think?" Walker said, raising an eyebrow. "That this is some old-fashioned hazing shit? I think I'm insulted."

Antonio stepped back nervously. "Oh shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

Walker cracked up. "You should see your face! I'm just messing with you. Yeah, this is where I fuck you up for blowing the game. It's nice that we don't gotta waste time on me explaining it and you freakin' out."

"Yeah." Antonio swallowed. Now that he was actually here, he was starting to get scared. This room had security cameras in it. How much power must Walker have if he wasn't afraid of their encounter being recorded? What if he was recording it himself?

"I pride myself on being fair," Walker said, "so I'm only gonna fuck you as hard as you fucked our team last night. Get undressed."

Antonio obeyed, hands shaking a little. He'd arguably fucked the team pretty hard.

The room was cool, and as he dropped his shirt on the floor, he shivered and sneezed. "You got a cold?" Walker said.

"Yeah, I think so," Antonio said. He grabbed a paper napkin from the snack bar and wiped his nose.

"You have a cold last night?" Walker asked. His voice was casual, but he was giving Antonio a hard look.

Antonio looked away, embarrassed. "Yeah. But I've played with colds plenty of times."

"Not against the Kingfishers," Walker said. "Not as an Electric. This ain't your college team where you're the only good pitcher in a hundred miles—we could've put Cable in there, or Ing's off the DL and raring to go. You feel sick, you don't play."

"I know," Antonio mumbled into the napkin. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

"You're damn right you won't." Walker shook his head. "This is shit, Mazzotti. I thought you just had an off night, but you knew you weren't at a hundred percent and you went in there anyway."

"I'm sorry," Antonio said again, a little desperately. He was naked and cold and scared, and he really wished Walker would just get on with it.

Instead, Walker turned to the table by the couch and picked up a bottle of blue Gatorade. He handed it to Antonio. "Drink."

The Electrics had to drink blue Gatorade at every press conference and public appearance. It was the same color as the team's electric blue and Gatorade had been eager to sponsor them. The guys all called it Smurf jizz. Antonio was sick of it. "I'll pass," he said.

"No you won't," Walker said. "Unless you really want to suffer." He flicked the plastic ring that showed the cap had been unsealed. "This isn't the regulation jizz. Got a little something to loosen you up. You'll thank me later."

Antonio eyed the bottle. "You... want me to roofie myself?"

"Well, I was gonna roofie you, but you were straight with me about playing sick, so I thought I'd be nice and give you a choice. But if I were you—and I was, once, back in the day—I'd chug it."

A terrible thought occurred to Antonio, much worse than the thought of whatever Walker was going to do to him. "Is it going to make me fail my next drug test?"

Walker looked offended. "What kind of amateur do you think I am, son? Dr. Vincent's already got a muscle relaxant prescription on file for you, dated two days ago." He nodded at the bottle. "Where do you think I got that shit? Some dealer in the park? Drink up, I'm tired of waiting."

Grimacing, Antonio opened the Gatorade bottle and chugged it as fast as he could. It tasted a little bitter, but if he hadn't been looking for something off in the flavor, he'd never have noticed.

Out of habit, he screwed the cap on the bottle and tossed it into the recycling bin. Walker chuckled, retrieved the bottle, and stowed it in his cubby. It belatedly occurred to Antonio that he should have somehow saved it as evidence. But that would mean reporting Walker, and the thought was impossible. Walker was an institution. He knew everyone. Antonio was just a rookie. And he couldn't shake the thought that if this was the only way to get Walker's dick in his ass... he'd take it.

Walker efficiently stripped off his own clothes, tossing them into his cubby. "Let's give that some time to kick in," he said, sitting back down on the couch and spreading his knees to display his hard-on. "You can suck me in the meanwhile."

Antonio knelt between Walker's legs and let himself fall back into the mindset of his early teens, when he'd first realized he had a desperate crush on the Electrics' powerhouse second baseman. He'd never dreamed he'd really get to see Gordon Walker's cock, let alone touch it. It looked small on Walker's lanky frame, but he guessed it was really about average size, maybe seven inches, and solid but not scarily thick. He reached out and stroked it timidly, then more firmly as Walker chuckled. "Don't be shy, son. Get right in there." 

Antonio got right in there, gulping down as much of Walker's cock as he could. His nose filled with the tangy scent of the other man's sweat and arousal, and it turned him on despite the circumstances. He absentmindedly reached down to stroke himself as he bobbed his head, licking and sucking as well as he could manage with his stuffy nose. He hadn't given many blow jobs and hoped he was doing okay.

A noise startled him and he started to pull away, but Walker grabbed his hair and shoved him back down. As Antonio spluttered and tried to recover his rhythm, he realized the sound was the big-screen television above the couch. Walker had gone back to watching the game.

"That's right," Walker murmured, barely audible above the sounds of the play and the commentators. "Nice and easy. You don't need to try to get me off. Just keep it wet and warm."

Antonio flushed red, humiliated. It was like he was nothing more than a piece of furniture or a cold drink, some object that only existed to make Walker a little more comfortable in the plush clubhouse.

For most of an inning—the same inning where he'd pitched three walks, he realized, sinking deeper into misery—he sucked Walker's dick. Soon his tongue and lips felt numb and raw, his jaw ached, and his arousal ebbed. "There's O'Donnell going to the mound to talk with Mazzotti," he heard Keith Olbermann say as he forced himself to keep going. "The rookie pitcher is not covering himself in glory tonight." But as it went on, he was somehow able to let go of the shame, or float above it. His whole body felt a little distant and tingly. He started to get turned on again, in a sort of abstract way. He tuned out the game and focused his whole attention on Walker's cock in his mouth, hard and velvety, rubbing against the back of his throat. He opened up and took more and more of it in. There was peace in being reduced to a useful orifice. He could let everything go. Nothing mattered but being wide open.

Finally the last batter struck out. Walker muted the ads and looked down at him. "I see it's kicked in," he said.

Antonio slowly pulled back. "Oh," he said. "Yeah." He'd forgotten about the drug, which was probably a sign that it was working. 

"You really like sucking me, don't you," Walker said. "Well, maybe I'll let you do more of that later. Right now I think you're a little too comfortable. Up, lie on the couch." He went to rummage in his cubby.

Antonio staggered to his feet and managed to get up on the couch. He lay back, feeling his skin stick to the cool leather, and stared at the muted television. It was showing an ad for sandwiches, but he wasn't hungry. He wasn't anything. He propped one leg up and let the other dangle.

Walker came back with a squeeze bottle of green gel and a box of latex gloves. He knelt down next to the couch and gloved up his hands. "How many walks did you allow last night?"

"Uh, five." Antonio sniffed the air. There was a tangy, minty smell. "Is that menthol gel? Like the PTs use?"

"Sure is." Walker shook his head. "Five walks in two innings. Pathetic. For that you get five fingers." He fanned his gloved right hand open and squirted gel onto it. 

The menthol smell got stronger, cutting through the fog in Antonio's head. "Fuck," he said, pulling his legs closed, "you can't put that stuff in me!"

"Sure can," Walker said. With his left arm, he pushed Antonio's knees against his chest. "Just like this."

He rubbed gel all around Antonio's anus. Antonio moaned hoarsely at the cool burning sensation. He couldn't even tell whether he liked it or hated it. His cock was still hard, so maybe he liked it.

Walker pushed two fingers into Antonio's ass. "Yeah, nice and open," he murmured.

Antonio began to squirm as the icy-hot sensation traveled deeper into him. The burning intensified. He could barely feel Walker's fingers. "No," he cried, "get it out, get it out!"

"Once it's in, it's in," Walker said cheerfully. Antonio was dimly aware of a third finger pressing into him, then a fourth. Now he could feel the stretch, but it was both lubricated and numbed by the menthol. The sensation was crazy and wrong. Some of the gel spread to his taint and balls, and he could feel his eyes roll back in his head as the tender skin started to tingle and burn. He thrashed around, but Walker leaned over him and kept him pinned to the couch as he ground his gloved knuckles up against Antonio's asshole. Antonio couldn't believe there were four fingers in him so quickly. He'd never taken anything bigger than an average-size dick, and not too many of those.

"My whole hand is going in you whether you like it or not," Walker said, "so open up for me. Don't let me down, now."

Antonio groaned and opened himself up, letting the drug do its job. Walker made a satisfied sound as his knuckles popped past the constricting rim and he buried his fist all the way in Antonio's guts. "Good boy," he murmured. Antonio hated himself for how much those two words meant to him. 

Walker began to work his hand roughly in Antonio's ass, sometimes twisting it, sometimes pulling it out and then shoving back in. Antonio jerked uncontrollably as his body tried to get away from the burning gel, but there was no "away"; the stimulation was constant, arousing, devastating. His cock was rock-hard, poking up from between his thighs, and he both hoped and feared that Walker would pay it some attention. He realized that at some point he'd started crying. 

"You're liking this too much," Walker said. "How's it supposed to stop you from messing up again if you like it so much?"

"No, no," Antonio sobbed, "I don't like it, I don't!"

"You're fucking yourself on my fist," Walker said. 

Antonio shook his head frantically, not sure how to explain that the burning was making him move and he couldn't stop himself.

"And look at your dick. It's a pretty one, too." Walker considered it. "I think it needs a little something, don't you?"

Antonio's eyes widened as Walker reached for the bottle of gel and squirted a generous amount onto the shaft of Antonio's cock. The burning was almost immediate. Antonio bucked as Walker jerked him off with one hand and fisted him with the other, coating him in cold chemical fire. Time slowed and became an abstract thing. Pain and pleasure were indistinguishable. There was only sensation and the desperate need to get away from it.

Somehow an orgasm began to build inside him. He whimpered, fucking up into Walker's slick gloved hand, knowing that every stroke rubbed more menthol into his most sensitive places.

As Antonio's balls began to tighten up, Walker grinned and worked him faster and harder. He pulled his fist halfway out of Antonio's ass, using the widest part of his hand to stretch Antonio obscenely open. It was too much. Antonio came like a fountain, and cried like a baby. 

Somehow, naively, he thought it would be over, but Walker kept fisting him and jerking him. Antonio cried harder as his overstimulated cock burned hotter, gel trickling into his slit and filling his urethra with liquid fire. Everything was too much and his mind bent under the strain.

Finally Walker pulled his fist out, let go of Antonio's poor abused cock, and peeled the gloves off. "I think you're ready," he said.

Antonio blinked at him, teary and terrified. "Ready for what," he croaked.

Walker reached into the seam between the couch back and the cushion and pulled out an aluminum baseball bat. "This," he said. "That was for the walks you allowed. This is for the hits you allowed."

"Dear God," Antonio whispered. Like any player, he knew the dimensions of a regulation bat, including that it was 2.75" inches wide. Even knowing he'd had Walker's fist in his ass—and Walker's hands weren't small—he couldn't see how anything that size could fit in him.

Walker put on clean gloves and rubbed green gel all over the bat. Antonio lay there, shivering, feeling like he should run away, like he should have run away so many times during this awful morning. But he couldn't, not without quitting the Electrics, and he'd wanted to be one of them his whole life.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"That's right," Walker said, nodding. "Remember why you're here. You let down the team. Don't do it again."

Then he pressed the end of the bat against Antonio's asshole.

The metal was so cold against his burning skin that Antonio shrieked and tried to twist away. Walker followed him easily, trapping him against the arm of the couch. He didn't try to work the bat in slowly or gently. He just kept pushing and pushing and pushing, a birth in reverse.

Walker was strong, and Antonio was drugged and numbed. Antonio felt his already stretched hole stretch wider, and then the bat was in him, cold and impossibly hard. And it kept going in, deeper and deeper, as Walker skewered him on the symbol of his failure.

Finally the bat was in as deep as it could go, but there was no reprieve. Walker started slowly fucking Antonio with it, dragging it out and driving it in with only the burning gel for lubrication. Antonio wondered whether he was going to be ruined forever. His body had lost its will to fight and he lay there, limp.

As the bat rubbed across his overstimulated prostate, slowly his cock began to get hard again. He realized the fucking was starting to feel good in an awful sort of way. He shook his head, moaning. He didn't want it to feel good. He didn't want to want it.

What he wanted most of all was for Walker's cock to take the place of the bat, but there was no hope of that, with the menthol everywhere. And why did he even still want Walker? But he did, he thought as the team captain methodically demolished him. All he wanted to do was make penance to his captain and be forgiven for his transgressions. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

It didn't take long for Walker to notice Antonio's arousal. "You're such a slut for this," Walker exclaimed. "Look at you. I debase you every which way and all you want is more. I bet you want to get fucked by the whole team." 

Antonio pictured himself bent over the couch, mouth and ass and dick available for all his teammates to use, and suddenly he was coming again, spurting helplessly everywhere as his ass spasmed around the bat.

At last Walker pulled the bat out and set it aside. Antonio lay still for a bit, braced for it to come back, but Walker pulled Antonio to his feet instead. Antonio swayed, dizzy and exhausted and somehow bereft. He had a terrible feeling that thoughts of baseball bats were going to intrude on his future jerk-off sessions.

"Shower," Walker said. Antonio let Walker lead him into the showers and soap him down. The burning didn't entirely go away, but it faded a bit. His ass was sore and unnervingly loose.

By the time they got out, Antonio's head was a little clearer. He toweled off and dressed himself with shaky hands. The wall clock told him it was only 11 a.m. He felt like it had been a lifetime since he showed up thinking he was just going to get knocked around a bit.

"I'll tell Dr. Vincent you've got a cold," Walker said. "Take an Uber home. Rest up."

"Okay," Antonio said, but he didn't move. He didn't want to leave. He'd worried that Walker was going to ruin his ass, but the reality was far worse. Walker had ruined his mind. He was only good for one thing now.

Walker examined him thoughtfully. "Or would you rather deepthroat my dick until I come?"

Antonio didn't want to nod. He didn't want to. He didn't. But he nodded, because it was true.

Walker sat down on one of the other couches and pointed to the spot between his feet. Antonio knelt and put his mouth where it belonged.


End file.
